


Westminster Private Academy

by LadyKailitha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Mystery, Really slow build johnlock, Romance, Story: Silver Blaze, like over two stories slow building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was content to live a life of misery and woe at Westminster Private Academy, the last school in all of Great Britain that would take him. And then the new scholarship student, John Watson arrives and turns Sherlock's world upside down. Suddenly, he's faced with all sorts of things he's never experienced before, friendship, love and a mystery like he's never seen. A teacher is dead and the school's prized dressage competition horse, Silver Blaze, missing. And as the horse was the only friend Sherlock had until John came along, it's personal. And he will not rest until justice is served.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [School Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083392) by [LadyKailitha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha). 



> Right, for all you lovely people that follow me, you are probably familiar with a very early work of mine, School Life. Well, this is its rewrite. I was rereading it, to re-familiarize myself with the story so I could write the long awaited sequel. What I read, I was not happy with, at all. And the sequel would have outstripped the original by leaps and bounds if left as is. So, I decided to rewrite it so the stories meshed better. 
> 
> There are tons, and I mean TONS, of changes. All for the better I hope. 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely and patient old ping hai, the best beta in the world.

The flaxen-haired youth ran down the street racing to get home as he had every day for the past week. Of course, today was different. Today was the last day of school before summer break. So, he felt doubly excited. It had to come today, it just had to. He would need the time to get all the things the school required to start the new semester in the autumn.

He forced himself to slow down. Not only was he putting the horse before the cart, he didn't have the horse or the cart yet. He had to take it one step at a time. He stopped by the mailbox and took a deep breath. He opened it slowly, to reveal about a half a dozen letters. Two were bills for mum and dad, two were his and Harry's grades, and there at the bottom of the pile was the letter he was waiting for.

In the upper left-hand corner of the envelope was the seal of Westminster Private Academy. And in the center was the John H. Watson, followed by his address. He ran his fingers over the soft vellum paper, trying to believe that this was really happening and not just a dream.

"Oi! Lughead!" a voice called from the front door of John's house. "You gonna be standing there all day?"

John looked up to see his sister standing there with her hands on her hips. She was a little taller than John (much to his chagrin), and had purple streaks in her short, spiky blonde hair.

John handed Harry her grades. "You may want to burn that before mum and dad get home," he said with a wink.

Harry groaned. She tried. She really did, but she could never scrape up grades higher than C+ average.

"Urgh," she muttered, tossing the envelope in the bushes by the door. "If mum or dad asks, the wind snatched it out of your hands and it flew away, never to be seen ever again…."

"Sir, yes sir!" John said with a salute and an ear-splitting grin.

"Urgh," she groaned again. "What has got you so chipper? It's disgusting."

"I got my letter from WPA today," John said, his smile turning smug.

"Ooh," she said, snatching the letters from his hands. She ran for the bathroom, tossing his grades and the two bills at him to slow his pursuit. Once she reached her destination, she slammed and locked the door behind her.

John could hear her rip open the letter. "Come on, Harry! I wanted to read it!"

She ignored him and began reading, "'Dear Mr Watson…' Ooh, fancy. 'We have looked over your scholastic merits, reviewed your record on and off the rugby pitch…' La-de-da, more boring stuff. Oh here we go, 'We are pleased to accept you into our school and wish to extend to you a full ride scholarship…' Well, aren't you the lucky devil." Harry threw open the door.

John grabbed the letter out her hands as she looked over the accompanying list of things he would need at the start of term. He had to read it several times to believe it. He got in. He. Got. In.

She handed him the list. "It's a good thing you got a full ride, brother dear. Otherwise the shock of the price of the uniforms alone would kill mum and dad." She tapped on the name of the place to get the uniforms. "I don't recognize some of the other places for like the books and things, but that place I do know."

John looked at the name. "Okay, I'm not familiar with it."

"Let's just say posh doesn't even cover it."

John winced. He knew that if he hadn't got a scholarship there was no way his parents could afford the tuition, let alone the things he would need. But he didn't realize it would be that bad.

There was a commotion at the front of the house as their parents came home.

Henry Watson was a stout, square man, his blond hair greying, turning it ashen. His blue eyes were wide and friendly and a smile seemed permanently attached to his face. He was a doctor at the local surgery, but his former occupation as a military doctor was firmly stamped on the way he held himself.

Julie Watson was the opposite of her husband, tall and willowy. Her platinum blonde hair was tied severely back in a bun. Her grey eyes were flat and lifeless, and though she had smile lines around her eyes and mouth, one could tell she hadn't smiled in awhile. She was the perfect picture of a faded beauty. She worked long hours at the hospital's A&E, and it left its mark on her person.

Mr Watson sat in his chair, a solid piece of furniture with a tartan pattern, and removed his shoes. He began to roll up his right trouser leg and Harry was there at his side in a heart beat, holding out a small jar to him.

"Thanks, love," he told her, taking it from her and setting it on the arm of the chair. He finished rolling up his trouser leg and wrestled with the prosthetic, working it off. He threw to the side with a mumble curse about it chaffing all the time. He opened the jar and took out a small glob. When he was done rubbing in the mixture, he looked up at his son.

"Alright, Johnny. What you got? I can see you over there, you're practically vibrating."

John started over to his dad and then briefly turned to his mother to show her first. She shook her head and then nodded to his dad. He finished the movement toward his dad and shoved the letter into his hands.

"I got in! Full ride, too. Isn't it incredible?" John gushed.

Mr Watson read over the letter carefully. "Well, done, Johnny. Now all we need is for Harry to become famous and me and your mum will be set for life." Around him, Mr Watson's family groaned.

"In all seriousness, John. I am proud of you." He turned to his daughter. "You just need to find something you excel at, then those grades won't matter, eh?" He pulled her grades out his pocket and she winced.

"Yes, dad."

He reached into his pocket again, for his wallet. He pulled out a twenty. Mrs Watson leaned forward as if to say something, then stepped back. "It'll be fine, Julie, I'll stick to cold cuts for the next while." He handed the money to John. "Go celebrate with your friends, John."

John's eyes went wide. "Thanks dad!" And he was off before his mum changed his dad's mind.

He sent a message to all his friends.

**\- Got in to WPA. Full ride. Meet me at Speedy's to celebrate! - JW**

* * *

Speedy's was their local diner and had the best fish and chips on the planet.

John sat at their regular table, a big pile of fish and chips in front of him and a coke. His leg jangled with anticipation as he waited for his friends to arrive.

His best friend, Mike, came first. He was a well-built youth, with brown hair and warm eyes hidden behind glasses. Trailing behind him was his girlfriend, Sarah. John had flirted with her a bit before she hooked up with Mike, but nothing came of it. She had blue eyes and warm brown hair that looked like honey in the sunlight. Not that John noticed. Of course not. She was his mate's girlfriend.

Next to arrive was Bill and his girlfriend. John couldn't tell what they saw in each other, to be honest. Bill was a tall, lanky red-head with more freckles than there were cabs in London. Jeanette was a thin girl with dark skin and constant scowl. John had dated that one. It did not end well. He had broken off too many dates due to family troubles and she dumped him at the Christmas party.

The last to arrive was James. He was captain of the rugby team and the strong silent type that all the girls went for. He could have had the pick of the lot, but he hadn't chosen any of them. John had the distinct impression his friend was gay.

"Hey, guys!" John said, jumping up to greet his friends. He was still vibrating from his good news.

Mike slid in next to him on his left, Bill on his right and their girlfriends next to them. That left James directly across from John and he smiled warmly at his captain. James gave a tentative one in return.

"So I hear someone got into their first-choice school," Mike grumped.

John nudged his friend in the shoulder. "Says the bloke that got his acceptance letter from St. Mary's weeks ago."

The rest of the group turned to him in shock. "St. Mary's!" Bill said with a low whistle. "When were you gonna tell us, mate?"

Mike shrugged. "After everyone got theirs, I guess. Didn't want to announce it if people didn't get into their first-choice schools."

Sarah gave his hand a squeeze.

"So, where are you going to, Bill?" John said, taking the focus off his best friend.

Bill glanced over at James, who nodded. "James and I got both got into the Northumberland Military Academy."

John let out a low whistle. NMA was his third choice, if he couldn't get in WPA or St. Mary's. Even the girls were impressed.

"How did you get in there?" John asked James. You had to have a relative who was either in the military or was to write you a letter of recommendation. And even then it was hard. "Bill here's granddad was some big war hero in WWII. Who got you in?" John let out a stuttered breath. "I mean, I didn't even know you were interested in the military or anything."

James shrugged. The truth was that he'd done it because everyone knew John's dream was to become an army doctor like his dad was. James knew that he couldn't get into Westminster Private Academy and he had no interest in medicine, so he went for John's third choice, hoping that John wouldn't get into his first two choices. That he could stay with John until at least uni. But he had forgotten how driven his friend could be.

"I've got an uncle on my mum's side who's a major in the army. He wrote my recommendation letter," James muttered into his drink.

"That's just so cool," John said, a grin splitting his face. James blushed.

"Oh, well that's just fantastic," Jeanette hissed. "What am I suppose to do while I have to continue going to school here and everyone is off at their pricey public schools?"

Everyone turned to Sarah. "St. Mary's, too," she said looking up at Mike, adoringly.

Jeanette rolled her eyes as her boyfriend exclaimed, "You go, girl."

"Didn't you want to be a vet?" John asked Jeanette.

"Teacher," she growled.

"Oh. Oops," he turned to the rest of his friends. "Which one was the one that wanted to be the vet?"

"The one with the nose," Mike said.

"No, the one with the spots," Sarah corrected.

"Oi!" Bill cried out. "I've got spots."

"You have freckles," Sarah told him. "She had spots."

"Anyway," James interjected. "John has had far too many girlfriends if even his friends can't keep track."

John blushed as Bill nudged him with his shoulder. "Maybe you'll find the right girl at WPA."

John laughed. Like those rich girls would want anything to do with him, and he said so.

They laughed and talked and ate their food. And John spent the rest of the summer hanging out with them as much as he could. He was going to miss them. A lot.


	2. Chapter 1: Showing Around the New Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a lovely long chapter for you. I don't think they'll all be this length, but there was no good place to stop. Thankfully, it doesn't read as long. 
> 
> As always old ping hai has my everlasting gratitude for all she does. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock was sulking in his room, deliberately _not_ packing for school. He stared at all the things he was forced to leave behind: the snow globe of the London skyline; a dark, charcoal-grey coat that his father gave him last Christmas; his violin; and the microscope. All too precious to leave behind and yet he could not take them.

There was a small rap on his door and he dully called out, "Come in."

The door opened to reveal his older brother Mycroft. Sherlock's eyes darted over the tall, auburn-haired man. He was seven years older than Sherlock and built on a stockier frame. The younger of the two sighed.

"Where have they gone this time?" he asked. His parents were always going someplace, and his mother would send him a snow globe from every location. His favorite was still the one from London.

Mycroft sighed and ran his fingers through his neatly-trimmed hair, his dark-blue eyes drifted closed. "I honestly have no idea, probably somewhere warm judging from the clothes they took. I have no doubt that in a week, we'll get the usual postcard telling us where they've gone."

Edward Holmes was in the Foreign Office, constantly being called away from home, often at the drop of a hat. As soon as Mycroft was old enough to take care of Sherlock, Odile Holmes went with her husband. Sometimes it was her skill as a mathematician that called them away from their children. They loved their children and honestly wished them well. Theirs was a case of benign neglect.

Mycroft took in his brother's room, noting the distinct lack of activity. "Why aren't you packing?"

"I'm not going," came his brother's petulant reply. Sherlock flopped on the bed face first and continued to mutter.

"It's either return to Westminster Private Academy or come to London with me and _I_ will tutor you. And believe me when I say that you _will_ be ready for Oxford come Christmas."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over on his back. "Isn't there somewhere else I can go?"

"Sherlock, may I remind you that you have either been thrown out of every other fine learning establishment or they refuse to take you. Especially after what happened to the Gibbons boy."

Sherlock sat up, his face no longer merely cloudy, but a veritable storm. "That was justified and you know it," he growled.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender. "I am aware. But until you tell your side of the story, everyone will assume you are the aggressor."

Sherlock pulled his knees up his chest. "They wouldn't have believed me, anyway," he murmured into his knees.

Mycroft sat on the bed next to him. "I know, Lockie. I do. But you have to go back. It would be better for everyone involved. Also, you wouldn't want mummy to worry, would you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "They all hate me."

The elder Holmes boy put his hand on his brother's knee. "I'll see what I can do. But I can't make promises. But couldn't you try to make friends or at the very least not be so antagonistic toward certain people?"

"Goldfish," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft chuckled.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on the door to the office of the Dean of Admittance and received a bid to enter.

"Oh, there you are, Sherlock. There are some things I need to go over with you," she said, a large folder on the desk in front of her. She was an older woman with greying blonde hair and wearing a prim purple dress. Her hands were neatly tucked on her lap and her lips formed a thin line.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock muttered as he threw himself into the nearest chair.

"Don't be so rough on the furniture, Sherlock," she admonished.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson."

She sighed. She flipped open the folder and glanced over its contents. "I see Mycroft has been listed as your parental guardian again this year."

Sherlock's hands wrapped around the ends of the arms of the chair tightly, but gave no response.

"Where have they gone this time? Last year it was the Balkans, wasn't it?"

"They're in Indonesia this time," Sherlock said with a shrug. As Mycroft had predicted, they had sent a postcard a couple days ago.

"Well that's nice, isn't it?" She looked at the pained expression on his face. "Isn't it?" Sherlock just shrugged again.

She sighed. "Sherlock, you know this level of recalcitrance isn't helping. In fact, it was one of the reasons you're on probation for this term. You'll only land yourself into more trouble, and you _will_ be kicked out."

"They all hate me. Especially the teachers. They don't like that I'm cleverer than they are."

"Well, we have some new ones this year. Maybe it won't be so bad. And a lot of the students that bullied you graduated last year, so maybe you can make some friends."

Sherlock just stared at the floor.

"Well, to help facilitate the process, you will, for the duration of your probation, mentor our latest transfer student, John Watson."

"You mean my babysitter," the boy huffed.

"No, I mean you will be his mentor. Granted, your fate is tied with his. If he gets into trouble, then so do you and vice versa. I realize that boys will be boys and he may accidentally run afoul someone he shouldn't, so we are giving you three chances."

"Each?" Sherlock asked, sitting up.

"No."

Sherlock slumped back into his chair.

"You are excused, Sherlock."

The tall, lanky youth threw himself out of her office and into the hall. There were a few students waiting outside for their turn and Sherlock scanned all of them. He had picked his choice, when the boy in question stood up to greet him.

"Hi, you must be Sherlock. John Watson, pleased to meet you," he said. Sherlock was surprised to say the least. Here was this boy, whom Sherlock fully expected to be…well, more like himself really. A pretty, rich boy, who had been kicked out of one of the finer institutions and sent here. But instead…instead, there was John Watson. There was something about the boy that defied categorization.

Sherlock was determined, however. The new boy's blond hair was cut short, his dark-blue eyes bright with intelligence and perhaps a little mischief. He was definitely an athlete of some sort, tanned. A warm smile and a ready handshake. And there it was, John's category. He was _good_. Not nice. But _good_. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder how long he would stay that way here. Until his need to be liked became the need to be popular.

After all, everyone leaves in the end.

"Hello," Sherlock replied, his thoughts having taken a mere blink of an eye. "Well, John, has our situation been explained to you?"

"Yeah, a bit high fantasy, ain't it? This whole 'your fate is tied to mine' crap." John shrugged. "If it means that you stay out of trouble till Halloween, and I don't mess with the school bullies, then whatever, mate."

Sherlock stared at him in shock. "You honestly don't care that I could really mess things up for you, do you?"

John grinned. "Looks like I'll just have to make sure you don't," he winked.

Sherlock realized it wasn't a threat, the blond actually wanted to spend time with him.

"You don't know me; I could be a serial killer, for all you know," Sherlock said.

"That would only make you more interesting, honestly. I'll just have to make myself so useful that it would be pointless to mark me as your next victim. Though, I bet your victims are those that think themselves above everyone else, those that think they can do no wrong, and when you capture them, you slowly take away that superiority bit by bit."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. John nudged him in the shoulder.

"Good thing you're not, eh, Sherlock? A serial killer, I mean," John said, a grin on his face.

Sherlock took in a moment to realize the boy was joking before giving in to a weak chuckle.

"I'm supposed to show you around the school, but as that would be dull and if you aren't intelligent enough to find your way, then you are far stupider than you look," Sherlock explained.

"Fair enough. Though you are going to have to show me your favorite places, so I can keep my eye on you," John said with a wink.

A warm feeling spread from Sherlock stomach to his chest. He fought it down; he had walls for a reason.

"All right," Sherlock conceded. "I'll show you the dorms last, so we can give the porters time to bring your luggage up to your room."

"We have porters? Wow." John was more than a little impressed.

"We have the full complement of porters, groundskeepers, cooks, cleaning staff, stablehands, and laundresses, in addition to the administration and faculty,"

"No wonder this place is so posh," John whistled. "But hold on, stablehands, really? This place has horses?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a smile, "would like to see them?"

"That depends," the blond said.

"On?" Sherlock frowned.

"On whether it's one of your favorite spots, otherwise I can look later."

"I see. Then we'll go there first," Sherlock smiled.

They stepped outside and again John whistled. "We have to walk all the way out there?" He pointed to the one-hundred yards of manicured park expanding before them. He could see a series of large buildings just beyond where the road curved to the right. The road was lined with trees on both sides. At the center of the park there was a statue and beyond that, he assumed, was the main school.

"Yes. They do love their intimidation techniques," Sherlock said leading them through the park.

Now John saw that in addition to the trees, there were ordinary shrubs and topiary of different animals. Apparently one of the under gardeners had a sense of humor, as there was a lion looking like he was ready to leap on a deer that was grazing nearby. There were benches placed along the paths.

"This is where most students have their lunch on warm days," Sherlock informed his companion. "While you are required to have breakfast and dinner with your house, lunch is a bit more lax."

"Nice to see this isn't all for show then," John muttered darkly.

Silence stretched, until Sherlock was forced to break it or he'd go mad.

"We have both an Olympic-sized swimming pool and a lake that is used for boating, swimming and fishing," Sherlock gave him sidelong glance before adding, "It's also where most people go for a shag."

John's eyes went wide and then he began to laugh. "Good to know."

Sherlock's face transformed as a small, shy smile graced it. John decided it look good on the taller boy.

They had barely reached the middle when John huffed, "Jeez, why is the main school so far from the admin building? Aren't they afraid that the students will take a runner before making it to the Headmaster's office?"

"It's nearer to the road for the ease of access for the parents who just want to get in and then out without having to see their offspring. The Headmaster's office and his rooms are in the main building, and all teachers have a small office connected to their classrooms. You only really go to the administration office at the beginning and end of every term. Plus, it's like I said earlier, they do love their intimidation tactics."

"Consider me suitably cowed," John murmured.

They made it to the stables passing between the pool and rugby and football pitch. The stables were attached to a large paddock where a few of the horses were milling around. Sherlock jumped up on the fence and let out a long, piercing whistle. A black horse with a bright white blaze in the center of its forehead and two white socks came bounding up to the curly-haired youth.

"This is Silver Blaze, he's mine. Well…when I say mine…" Sherlock said.

"He's gorgeous,"

"He's a dressage horse. I compete with him every spring,"

"Oh wow!"

They talked about the different kind of events for horses before they moved on.

"Where to next?" John asked, dusting off his hands.

"Well, there's the dance studio, but I doubt you have any interest in that," Sherlock murmured.

"Well, maybe not in the studio, but what kind of dancing do you do?"

"Ballet," Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, so you're a danseur noble, then?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I love that you not only knew the term but assumed that I was the lead."

"My sister Harry did ballet for a bit and I figured you would never do anything by halves," John said with a shrug.

"But, yes. I am the danseur noble," Sherlock smiled.

"Where else?" John asked.

"Well there's the library…" Sherlock said, warily

"I bet it's fantastic. The library at my old school was dreadful. It had a couple of outdated history books, a 1971 copy of "Grey's Anatomy, and the third Harry Potter book with the last two chapters ripped out."

"So the poor reader was left wondering what happened after the Dementors' attack?"

"Exactly!"

They reached the library doors. "Then, you'll like this!" Sherlock shoved open the heavy doors to reveal a book lover's wet dream. There were stacks and stacks of books as well bookshelves fill to the brim lining the walls.

"Amazing!" John whispered. "How does anyone leave?"

"Apparently there are a vast number of people, from parents to teachers and administration that frown on skipping classes," Sherlock retorted.

John nudged him in the shoulder, "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

Sherlock winked. "A bit."

He let John wander the stacks for awhile before he steered the other boy toward the dorms.

"Curfew is at ten on school nights and midnight on the weekends. Also there is mandatory church service for two hours on Sunday morning," Sherlock explained.

"I saw that, I hoped it wasn't as staunchly enforced as it was implied in the acceptance letter."

"Ah, no. It is very rigorously enforced."

They reached the first dorm. "You have housing units. Three for students and one for teachers. You have Victoria for the ladies," he said pointing to the first house. "Belgravia for the teachers," he indicated the next building. "The next two are for the boys, Marylebone and Paddington."

He looked over at the other boy, "Which one are you in?"

John pulled out a small paper out of his pocket and looked at it. "Marylebone."

He stopped short. "Wait, are you telling me that in a school named after a borough of London each of the dorms is named after a district in that selfsame borough?"

Sherlock turned to face John. "Very good, John. Most people don't make the connection until they get into the dorms themselves."

John started walking again and Sherlock fell into step next him. "Why's that?" the shorter boy asked.

"Because each of the floors above ground floor are named after a street in each district."

John rolled his eyes, "Please tell me you're joking."

"Nope!" Sherlock popped the 'p' at the end.

"Right."

They reached the third building and Sherlock showed him in. They made passing glance at each of the nurse's station, laundry room, the dorm head's quarters and dinning hall. They completely pass the rec room.

"Why aren't we going in there?" John asked the taller youth.

"You asked me to only show you my favorite places. That is not one of them."

"Not your scene?" John asked.

"Not welcome," came the short reply.

They went up the stairs. "Which level are you on?" Sherlock asked as they reached the first floor. There in brass letters read 'Bentinck Street.' John squinted up at and then pulled out the paper once more.

"'Baker Street.' What does the 'B' at the end mean?" he asked.

"The floors are split into two. Twenty-four on the front side looking out over the park, which is 'A,' and twenty-five overlooking the forest behind us, which is 'B.' The first floor is one-hundred series, the second floor is two-hundred series and the third level is three-hundred series."

"I guess that makes sense. It's weird, but okay. I've got 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock started. He ran up the rest of the way and down the hall to the room in question. There in the metal slats for the occupants' names were 'Holmes' and 'Watson'.

"Oh cool!" John said when he caught up. "Looks like we're roommates!"

"So it would seem."

 _Thank you, Mycroft. I owe you_.


	3. That Watson Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I am so so sorry. First I went to Salt Lake City Comic Con and then I got sick and then this chapter hated me so I went to work on other aspects of the story. Like the mock-up of the grounds I put on the previous chapter. The mock-up of the dorm rooms at the end of this chapter. The house badges including animal, colors, and dorm heads. A lot of background stuff that is important in my head, that might not make it into the story.
> 
> Thanks to my beta who looked over this chapter even though she wasn't feeling good, so guys can get the chapter sooner. And you'll be happy to note, I have the next chapter written, I just have to type it up.
> 
> EDIT: I made a slight change to the chapter. I had John surprised Sherlock dances, when in the previous chapter they discuss his dancing. Oops! So I fixed it so makes sense with the previous chapter. Thanks lovelies.

John wasted no time throwing open the door to their room. He supposed it made sense that they were rooming together, what with the probation Sherlock was on.  
  
Despite what Mrs Hudson said, John knew he was Sherlock's minder. It was his job to make sure the lanky youth kept his head down and his mouth shut until the term was over. Thankfully, it was only the one term instead of half the school year as he had feared. But the Dean had mentioned that Sherlock was a bit of a loner and in need of a friend. John wondered briefly if it was by choice or if others shunned him. He was willing to bet it was probably a mixture of both.  
  
Well, John would be Sherlock's friend. It wasn't exactly a hardship. Sherlock reminded him a bit of James. Though admittedly, James was more a quiet eccentric compared to the boisterous madman who had become his roommate. But there was just something in the soul of each boy that screamed a want for someone to understand that the face they show to the world is nothing but a mask.  
  
In the short couple hours of being in Sherlock's company, John got the impression that the tall youth thought he didn't need anything but those small objects he cherished. His violin, Silver Blaze, dancing, and his books. People need not apply. But there were moments when he didn't know John was looking that he would get this expression of pure longing for someone to laugh with him, not at him.  
  
"Which side have you staked your claim on?" John said as he walked between the desks and beds to stand in the middle of the room. Pushed against the wall under the window were two sets of drawers. There was a small door on the near end of the left-hand wall that led to the en suite bathroom.  
  
Sherlock quirked a small smile at John's wording.  "The left. The other side shares a wall with 222B's bathroom and Kingsley masturbates in the shower."  
  
John ran his hands down his face, "Really?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
"Bastard," the smaller boy muttered. "Fine. But if he does wank off, I'm giving you a play-by-play."  
  
Sherlock grinned. John began unpacking his things, books, uniforms, pictures from home. Sherlock threw open his chest to unpack as as well. He pressed his hand to his mouth. He shakily pulled out his mobile phone and tapped out a message.   
  
 **-I owe big time, brother dear. Thank you so much. The new roommate, the coat, the snow globe, my coat, violin and microscope. Everything is perfect. -SH**  
  
 **-Think nothing of it. It was the least I could do. -M**  
  
Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and began methodically putting everything away.  
  
He was almost done when John called out from his side of the room.  
  
"Hey, what's your schedule like? I want to know if we have any classes together."  
  
Sherlock doubted it. Well, until he looked closer at John's books. An academic scholarship as well as one for sports? Very interesting, very interesting indeed. John was too busy plotting the demise of the horrific lamp his mother had bought to notice the pause before Sherlock replied.  
  
"On 'A' days I have advanced maths, advanced chem., orchestra, dance and riding…."  
  
"Oh? What instrument do you play?" the blond boy asked, eying the long black case on Sherlock's bed with interest.  
  
"Violin."  
  
"So let me get this straight; you ride and play the violin, on top of the dancing? Damn, mate!"  
  
Sherlock gulped and nodded. He worried that it would be too much for the scholarship boy. That he might decide that Sherlock was too posh to be friends with.  
  
"Explains why you're so bloody graceful. I bet you keep it a secret so the girls don't beat down your door."  
  
"Umm…" Sherlock coughed. "Girls aren't my area."  
  
John lifted an eyebrow. "Boys then."  
  
"They beat down my door for other reasons," Sherlock flinched.  
  
John shook his head.  
  
"Idiots. I'd like to see them lift a girl over their head and hold her. And there's the fact you get see girls in skin tight clothes. Being a dancer has nothing to do with being gay. And being gay is fine." There was a low growl in John's voice.  
  
"Sounds like you're talking from experience," Sherlock murmured as he slid his violin case under the bed.  
  
"Not me personally. My sister is a lesbo," John explained as he flopped on the bed.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Bored."  
  
Sherlock looked over his roommate and rolled his eyes. "You could go down to the rec room. I'm sure it's open." And there it was. John would go running off to be with the other boys and then he'd learn, no one likes the freak. He'd become one of them.  
  
"Great!" John said, enthused. He grabbed Sherlock wrist and attempted to drag him with.  
  
Sherlock stared at the blond youth in shock. "I-I'm not welcome there. All the boys down there hate me."  
  
"Ah but you see, I'll be with you and therefore not every boy will hate you."  
  
Still Sherlock wouldn't budge. "Come on, Sherlock. I don't want to go down by myself."  
  
Sherlock sighed. "Look, I'll make you a deal. You go down first, while I get a shower and then I'll come down. Give you time to meet people without me there. And if I'm right, which I usually am, you'll see that they don't like me."  
  
"And if you're wrong?" John asked folding his arms across his chest.  
  
"Then, I will go down with any time you want for the next month," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Deal!" John said sticking out his hand. Sherlock shook it. "See you down there!" he called as he dashed out of their room.  
  
He ran down the stairs and to the rec room, where he stopped at the door to take it all in. This was better. There was music playing from someone's ipod in the corner. There were boys playing chess and pool or just lazing around having a laugh. In the middle of the boys lazing about was a dark-haired youth with warm brown eyes and a lop-sided grin.  
  
Their eyes met and the other boy stood up, making his way toward John. Once there the boy stuck out his hand. "Greg Lestrade. You must be John Watson, right?"  
  
John took his hand and nodded. "That's me. What did you read it off my jeans or something?"  
  
"Uh, no. I'm the dorm head. You wouldn't happen to be talking about Sherlock Holmes and his ability to read your life story like a book, would you?" Greg was practically cringing.  
  
"Yep! He's brilliant. Showed me around in fact. Bit of a mad man, but then all super-smart people are," John said, tucking his hands behind his back and rocking back on his heels.  
  
"You liked him? That's not most people's reaction."  
  
John cocked his head to the side and frowned. "What's the normal reaction?"  
  
"'Piss off.'"  
  
"Ouch. No, we got along fine. Which is good, because he's my roommate."  
  
"Oh. Well good luck, mate," Greg let out a low whistle. "Hey, let me introduce you to the lads."  
  
There were a half dozen or so boys that Greg introduced him to, but it was clear that the ring leaders were Greg, Victor, and Langdale. Victor and Langdale (who preferred Dale) couldn't have been more different if they were designed that way.  
  
Victor Trevor was Greg's height at 5'10''. Dark hair, skin and eyes. His Indian heritage stamped clearly in the narrow set eyes, high forehead, and long nose, but he made these features look good. He was quiet and reserved. Thinking before he spoke. His voice was soft and mild. His manner and diction polite.  
  
Langdale Pike on the other hand, was tall. John estimated at 6'2'' and he wasn't sure the boy was done growing. His eyes were light and he had light brown curls that were tamed by being slicked back from his forehead. He had a wicked gleam in his eye and glib tongue that never seemed to stop wagging. He was loud and boisterous, clearly making up for his friend's silence.  
  
The four of them started up a game of doubles pool, with John and Victor on one side and Dale and Greg on the other. John groaned as Dale sank another ball. They were losing.  
  
Suddenly the room went quiet. John looked up at the door to see Sherlock had kept his promise and had come down. Sherlock turned from the door and would have bolted if John hadn't caught his arm.  
  
"See?" Sherlock muttered. "They hate me."  
  
"Come on. We're playing doubles, you can take my place. I'm only dragging Victor down anyway," John said as he dragged his new friend to the other boys.  
  
"Everyone say hi to Sherlock," John prompted the slack-jawed boys standing around the pool table.  
  
There was a chorus of hellos. John thrust a cue in Sherlock's hand.  
  
"You're up, we're odds."  
  
Sherlock sighed. It was clear that John was going to force this and it appeared the blond youth could be quite tenacious.  
  
Sherlock rolled his shoulders and then dusted his cue. His eyes flickered around the board before settling on his target. He drew the cue back and with a crack the cue ball went sailing toward the nine ball. Thunk! And then nine ball went down.  
  
Again his eyes flicked around the board. He lined up his shot and with the same efficiency the five ball fell to the skill of an expert pool shark. He cracked his neck and walked around the board, surveying it from every angle. John's left hand twitched nervously. The remaining odd ball was poorly placed, being surrounded by the even balls and the eight ball.  
  
Sherlock smirked and then pulled back the cue and hit the cue ball as hard as he could. It went dancing around the board before it struck the fifteen ball, and it too danced around the board to fall in a corner pocket.  
  
There were four shocked faces staring at the lanky youth.  
  
Sherlock coughed. "Are we playing for the eight ball?" he asked, suddenly nervous.  
  
"Yeah," John managed to force out.  
  
Sherlock nodded and bam! the eight ball fell to his ruthless prowess.  
  
"Wow," Greg bit out.  
  
Victor lifted up Dale's jaw. Dale was completely stunned into silence for the first time, ever.   
  
"Um…" Sherlock stammered. "I-I'll just be leaving then." He dropped the cue on the table and turned to leave.  
  
A hand darted out and Sherlock looked down to see dark fingers wrapped around his thin wrist.  
  
"Stay?" Victor asked.  
  
"Yeah, mate," John agreed. "You have to show us how you did that. I've seen lots of pool sharks in my home town, but none that could have done what you just did. That was incredible."  
  
"You have to stay, Sherlock. You made Dale here shut up and anyone who can do that has my vote," Greg added.  
  
Dale merely nodded.  
  
"You really want me to stay?" Sherlock asked the other boys and received a chorus of nods and 'hell yes.' He stayed. Victor even managed to convince Sherlock to teach him how to line up his shots. John and Greg shared a smirk on how Victor managed to plaster himself on the inside of Sherlock's body as they lined up the shot together.  
  
Too soon the clock struck ten and it was time for the boys to go to bed. Sherlock was chatting animatedly with Victor and Dale, so he missed John being pulled aside by Greg.  
  
"Alright, Mr Wizard, what the hell did you do to our Sherlock?"  
  
"Um…" John hedged. "I'm not sure I understand the question."  
  
"Look. I like the guy. I do. But he's got no filter. Whatever comes to his mind, he just blurts out with little to no regard for the person he's spewing them at. But this Sherlock, the one that just left? That is not the Sherlock I know."  
  
"Maybe he just needed someone to praise him, instead of condemning him," John said, his arms crossing in front of his chest defensively.  
  
Greg held up his hands, placating. "No, I get that. You're good for him. He looks to you for social cues. Did you notice?"  
  
There had been a moment when Sherlock had said something that was more than a little not good and Sherlock had turned to John for confirmation he had stumbled.  
  
 _"Not good?" the slender boy had asked._  
  
 _"A bit not good, yeah," John replied._  
  
He had gone on to defend his statement, but he had still asked.  
  
"Yeah. I got that," John said. "I'm guess that was unusual."  
  
"Try a bleeding miracle, John. Seriously. I want to know how you bewitched Sherlock Holmes," Greg pressed. "Because I want to be able to do that, too."  
  
"Nah. He likes you," John assured the dorm head. "After he spotted me, his eyes went searching for you. Once he spotted the both of us, he relaxed."  
  
Greg sighed. "It's because I try to keep the bullying to a minimum, but I can't stop the name calling. I don't even try. But what I can do is make sure it's effects aren't as far-reaching."  
  
"It'll be fine, Greg. Wait and see," John said, patting the other boy on the shoulder.  
  
John went up to his room and saw that Sherlock was leaning against the door, waiting for him.  
  
"So, did Greg tell you all about the 'Freak?'" Sherlock spat.  
  
John help up his hands. "Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Sheesh, Sherlock. There was no naming calling at all."  
  
"Everyone hates the 'Freak.' Some more so than others. Greg is only kind to me because he can come across as heroic to the ladies."  
  
"That's not true and you know it." John sighed. "I know it's hard to trust people when they have done nothing but hurt you. You have to trust me. I won't do that to you. Greg wouldn't either. And you made friends out Dale and Victor. Don't deny it."  
  
"They were tolerable, I suppose," Sherlock sniffed.  
  
John laughed and pushed Sherlock out of the way to enter their room. He started to gather up his things to change, when he heard Sherlock say, "What did Greg want then?"  
  
John turned around and smiled. "He wanted to know what spell I had used to charm the fierce beast known as Sherlock Holmes and turned him into the fairy prince that graced us with his presence." He winked at his friend and he went to the bathroom.  
  
As he closed the door he swore he heard Sherlock say, "That is the mystery indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's a section of the dorms. 221B is the third one. And the A block would just be flipped so the window is on the other side.
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/88803735@N08/15083965269)


	4. The Life of a Freak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me over a month to get this out to you. My muse was running around like a crazy person with ideas for everything BUT this. But here it is. Extra long to make up for the extra long time it took me to get it to you.

Sherlock woke up feeling excited for school for the first time since he started primary. He looked over at the cause of his excitement, who was at this moment still sound asleep. That just wouldn't do. John needed to be awake right this minute.

He leaped from his bed to John's, which was ten feet from his. He landed on his new roommate's chest with a thud and the sound air rapidly leaving John's chest.

"Oi!" John yelled as he stared up at the mop of fluffy hair leaning above him. "You nutter!" Sherlock grinned. The blonde youth looked at the clock and groaned. It read 5:51am. "Couldn't you have waited ten minutes?"

"Nope!" Sherlock said, popping his 'p' and leaping from the bed as John tossed his pillow at him. He narrowly avoided the fluffy projectile with a laugh.

Sherlock grabbed his uniform and dashed for the bathroom. John jumped up and pounded on the door.

"Oi! I need to pee!" he hollered. He was about to pound on it again when the door swung open to reveal a perfectly dressed Sherlock Holmes tying his tie. The only thing missing was the socks and shoes. John blinked.

"Just don't take long, I still need to brush my teeth and hair," the taller boy said with a wink.

"How did you get dressed so fast?" John asked, gaping at his roommate.

"What?" Sherlock returned. "That was slow. Mycroft would have had his shoes tied."

"Mycroft is your brother?" John asked. Sherlock nodded as he pulled on his socks and shoes.

"You and your brother would have races to see who could get dressed the fastest?"

"Not just the fastest. You'd get docked if anything was out of place, too."

"And to think me and my sister played kick ball," John said and then ducked into the bathroom to take care of his business. He emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth, his hair too short to need anything other than a run through with his fingers.

Sherlock went in after John was done and brushed his teeth and hair. When he came out, John was standing by the drawers pulling out his white shirt, the shorter boy's torso on display. Sherlock took in every line, every plane, every crevasse.

"Rugby, right?" he asked as his roommate pulled on his shirt.

John jumped and whirled around. "Jeez, Sherlock you scared me."

"Sorry," but the other boy did not sound repentant in the slightest.

"But yes. How could you tell?"

"Tan lines suggest short-sleeved uniform, which narrows the sport you play to rugby or football. But if it was football you wouldn't have the callouses on insides of your thumb and forefinger. Football doesn't use hands, which leaves rugby."

"Brilliant!"

Sherlock blinked. "Really?" This boy was constantly surprising him. Doing the 'trick' once might warrant such fervent praise, but twice? He really expected John to grow tired of it. Well, it was still new. Give him a few weeks, it'll wear off.

John finished getting ready to go and together they went down to the dinning hall. Sherlock stopped at the threshold, suddenly frozen.

John looked up at his roommate in concern. "You alright there, mate?"

"Yes, um…I'm fine. Just remembered, I need to get something at the library." Sherlock took a step back. "I'll meet you in Professor Allen's class."

"Alright," John said, confusion furrowing his brow. He looked into the dinning hall but he couldn't see anything that might have spooked the other boy. He looked back at the retreating form of Sherlock Holmes, wondering about the strange fellow that had been thrust into his life. He shook his head and went to breakfast.

* * *

Sherlock ran to the library as though hell itself was mad on his heels. He wove through the halls, ducking back and stopping as though he was being followed. When he finally made it to the library, he straightened up and took a deep breath. He strolled through the doors as if he hadn't been running. Sherlock nodded to Mrs. Coleman, the head librarian. She smiled in return. Mrs Coleman was the only adult besides Mrs Hudson to actually like him. The others either hated him or they merely tolerated his presence.

He made his way to the Psychology section and curled up with his favorite book. "Unsolved Crimes of England: 1880-1915." He had solved half of them already, but he still never got tired of reading the same cases over and over.

It was not long, however, before he heard snickering behind the stacks. He carefully put the book away and then slowly turned around. There, peeking through the gap some of the books had left on the top portion of the shelf were three boys.

They stepped out from behind the bookshelf and Sherlock let out a low curse. There stood his old roommate, Edward Stewart and his two cronies, Freddie Adams and Jasper Sewell.

They were all football players. Large and stupid. Edward was a tall, black boy with a shaved head and crooked teeth. Freddie was a ginger with more freckles than sense. Jasper was the pretty one. He had wavy blond hair, perfect teeth, and personality of a warthog.

Sherlock loathed them. They were friends with the Gibbons boy and they were no doubt here to take their revenge. He sighed, this wasn't going to end well.

Jasper leaned against one of the bookshelves and inspected his fingernails. "Didn't think you'd show your face after what you did to Paul. How much did daddy pay to let you back in?"

Sherlock scowled. It was rare they actually hit the nail on the head, but when they did, it appeared they did so with deadly accuracy.

"Look, I don't want any trouble," Sherlock said taking a step back.

"Oh, we heard all about your probation. You make your roommate your bitch yet, Freak?" Edward sneered.

"You would know all about that wouldn't you, considering you were my roommate last year?" Sherlock cursed inwardly. Apparently, he _did_ have a filter problem.

"Are you calling me a shirt-lifter, Freak?" Edward asked, cracking his knuckles.

"No, that would be Freddie, here," Sherlock sniped. He then closed his eyes. That was one step too far, and he knew it.

"I ain't the poofter, Freak. That would be you," Freddie said as he stepped closer to Sherlock.

Which the dark-haired youth took as a sign to run. They chased him out to the hall and Jasper took him out with a maneuver using his legs that would make cheetah green with envy. They started raining down kicks on his torso and arms, avoiding the face.

Sherlock was sure they were going to continue until he began coughing up blood, but the bell rang and the boys ran off. Sherlock struggled to his feet, hand pressed tightly to his side. He leaned against the wall and wheezed out a pained breath.

Masters Jenkins and Wentworth were going to murder him. It was almost impossible to dance or ride with bruised ribs. At least he hoped they were only bruised. He would have to check later tonight. Away from prying eyes.

He pushed away from the wall with a wince. He staggered to his first class and when he reached Professor Allen's classroom he was out of breath. He dusted off his clothes and straightened his tie. He lifted his chin and sauntered into the classroom like he had meant to be late.

He mustn't let them see that they had hurt him. John looked up at his roommate in concern. The teacher on the other hand didn't even glance at the dark-haired youth. She continued to write their syllabus on the board. When she was done she turned to face the class. It was then she addressed the tardy student.

"Mr Holmes. How good of you to join us. It appears that you have no respect for being on time. As usual. That's one strike," Prof. Allen said with a sneer.

John opened his mouth to protest but he felt a sharp pain in his ankle where Sherlock had kicked it hard.

He looked at his roommate, who shook his head.

"Is there something you would like to add, Mr Watson?" she asked with a smirk.

"No, Professor," he said shaking his head.

"Good." She went on to teach her lesson.

John looked around the room at the reaction of the other students at how unfairly Sherlock had been treated, but there wasn't a single sympathetic face among them. There were a few bland expressions, but most were smirks and even full-on grins that the dark-haired youth had been put in his place.

John fumed silently as he thought about the professor. She was a regular Severus Snape. A bully. He had them in his old school and she was no different. He doubted going to the Head Master would have any effect. Well, there was the Dean of Students, but John had no doubt that he would be even sympathetic. John thought briefly about going to Mrs Hudson directly, but it would be his word against that of a professor and he knew exactly how well that would go.

He rubbed his hands over his face. There was nothing he could do, and Sherlock certainly didn't look like he could mount his own defense. The boy was pale; paler than usual and looked about ready to pass out. And John had no doubt that the teacher would dock him for that, too.

The class passed both excruciatingly slowly and in supersonic speeds. John felt as though time was going backwards but class was over before he knew it. He tried to catch Sherlock to find out what happened, but the boy vanished into the crowd before John could reach him.

John stood at the door as the other students jostled around him, staring down the hallway where the dark-haired boy had vanished. He caught up to Sherlock in their next class, but the other boy was coldly silent despite John's pleas to find out what had happened.

Sherlock stared at the blackboard, his lips in a thin line as if holding himself together by sheer will alone. John managed to get through the class with only mild jittering. At least it wasn't bad enough for the professor to call him on it.

After class, John was able to lay hands on Sherlock before the boy vanished into the hallway. "Look, I know you don't want to tell me what happened, but I'm here for you, okay?"

Sherlock nodded jerkily.

"Good. And Sherlock? Be careful, all right?"

The boy smiled wanly and did his vanishing trick into the crowds of students. John sighed. It was going to take more than a few kind words and one nice evening to get the dark-haired boy to trust him, John knew. It just killed him that Sherlock never had any reason to believe that anyone would have his back.

Well, he'd never had a John Watson before. And John was loyal.

He was also a teenage male. Which was his excuse for mooning over the pretty blonde in his art class instead of thinking about how to help his new roommate. She was striking. Her hair was short and spiky, her eyes were azure, and she had curves that made John pant. She didn't appear to be one of those giggly girls, either. He couldn't stand that in…well, anyone really, but girls especially.

He was regaling his mates about this mystery girl when he heard someone call out, "Oi! I didn't touch him. He just fell."

John leaped over the table and Greg, Dale, and Victor were fast on his heels. John prayed that it wasn't Sherlock. _Please, don't let it be Sherlock_ , he pleaded over and over. But alas, it was to no avail, for there surrounded by other Marylebone boys was a Sherlock, unconscious.

"Someone get the nurse!" John called out. Dale nodded and dashed off. "Victor, hold his head still. I don't think he fell hard enough to do anything to his spine, but I don't want to take any chances."

Victor nodded and did as he was told.

"Greg, you got a pen light on you?" John asked, holding out his hand. Greg dug into his pocket and pulled one out. He handed it to John.

The short blond took it from the dorm head and peeled back one of Sherlock's eyelids. He shined the light into Sherlock's eye. He moved the light back and forth.

"Okay, normal dilation and contraction. That's good."

"I brought the nurse," Dale said as he skidded to a stop next to Greg.

The nurse was a thin, reedy fellow with golden hair and green eyes. He raised an eyebrow at John who had taken control of the situation.

"Right," the nurse said. John could see that the tag on the nurse's left breast said "Rochester." "You two boys, help me carry him back to the nurse's station." He pointed to John and Victor. John grabbed Sherlock's legs and Victor moved to cradle Sherlock's torso and wrapped his arms around his waist, under his arms.

They lifted Sherlock and moved to follow Nurse Rochester to the station, but Greg put a hand to stop John, Victor stopped with him.

"Just let me know how he is when you're done," Greg requested. "Okay?"

John nodded. Greg let him go and then turned to crowd of boys that had gathered to see the spectacle.

"All right, break it up now. Nothing to see here. Move along."

As the boys broke up there were whisperings and giggles.

"I wonder who clocked him this time?" one boy asked another.

"God, I hope it was Edward and his lot. They needed payback after what the Freak did to their mate."

"Yeah."

"Fucking wanker," said another.

"Freak."

"Twink."

"Fairy."

The names echoed in John's head. It took all his might not drop Sherlock and punch more than a few noses in the unconscious boy's defense. But getting Sherlock back to the land of the living was more important than some stuck-up pricks with nothing better to do than pick on someone different than themselves.

The nurse did his own examination and when he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to listen to his heartbeat, he hissed in sympathy.

Sherlock's chest was mottled with bruises.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" John swore.

Victor just paled, his dark skin taking on an unhealthy hue.

"You should sit," Nurse Rochester said, pointing at the older boy. "I don't need two patients on my hands."

Victor nodded and sat down on a nearby chair.

"I'm pretty sure judging from your reaction, you two weren't aware of his injuries," Nurse Rochester said.

The two boys nodded grimly.

The nurse removed Sherlock's jacket and shirt and went about probing the boy for broken ribs. Then he took a couple of x-rays. While he waited for them to develop, his patient had the presence of mind to wake up.

"Hello, your friends tell me your name is Sherlock," Nurse Rochester said as Sherlock struggled to sit up. "No, no. Lay back down. You've passed out."

Sherlock groaned. "You aren't the usual nurse, what happened to Nurse Ratched?"

"Fan of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ , are we?" Nurse Rochester asked with a wink.

"My brother liked it," Sherlock murmured.

"Ah. Well, Nurse Keller retired. I'm David Rochester. I took his place." He looked Sherlock up and down. "I know you were attacked, judging from the bruises on your arms and torso. You want to tell me who it was?"

"They won't believe you. They'll think I told you lies," Sherlock told the nurse.

"Ah. So, you're the one they warned me about. Sherlock Holmes, the smart-arse extraordinaire and resident liar. They told me you'd fabricate things about my personal life to make me uncomfortable."

"It's not lying, it's deduction. Though, you should probably take your cat to the vet. Especially since it vomited twice before you left for work."

Nurse Rochester raised his brow.

"Brilliant!" John breathed.

"I'll be sure I do that," the nurse said.

"Can I go now?" Sherlock croaked out.

"What? Oh! Right. Just let me check your x-rays to make sure nothing is broken."

He dashed off.

"You and I are having words when we get back to our rooms, Sherlock Holmes," John threatened.

Sherlock gulped.

The nurse came back, the x-rays in his hands. He threw them up on the light board and flipped the switch. "Looks like the ribs are just bruised, Mr Holmes. You are very lucky. You'll be uncomfortable for a few days, but nothing serious."

He rummaged around for something in the cabinet. He called out when he found it. "Here. It's bruise balm. We give it to athletes to speed up the process."

He handed to Sherlock, looking decidedly unhappy. "I wish you'd let help you with your attackers. Maybe they'll listen to me."

Sherlock just shook his head sadly.

"Wait!" John said suddenly. "You can help. Give him a note for Prof. Allen's class. That way she has to reverse the strike."

"It's not worth it, John," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, it is," John said firmly.

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "There is no arguing with you, is there?" he asked.

"Nope."

Nurse Rochester wrote out the note, saying that Sherlock had fallen down some stairs and was getting patched up by the nurse, which is why he was late.

"Well, it's almost time for your next classes, boys," Nurse Rochester said.

"Right."

Sherlock got up, clutching his salve. As he passed Victor, the other boy grasped his wrist.

"Take care, Sherlock," he said. "I worry about you, too."

Sherlock's stomach did a little flip, and he nodded.


	5. Chapter 4: The Strange Teacher, The Murder, and the Theft of Silver Blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I guess an apology is in order? I know if you have been following me as an author, you know that I put out the last two chapters of Strange as Angels, two one-shots, and four chapters of High Society since the last time I put out a chapter of this. In my defense, I will say that I have been working on this chapter. I have, honest. It was giving me so much trouble. Which is why it way shorter than the other chapters. But at least we get on to the mystery.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, old ping hai. She's awesome. :D

It seemed the only classes John and Sherlock didn't have together were their science elective (botany for Sherlock and anatomy for John), their PE class (riding for Sherlock and rugby for John), and their art credit (dancing for Sherlock and drawing for John). It appeared that the Deans had conspired to make sure John stuck by Sherlock as much as possible.

They both hated their history class. The teacher, Mistress Pine, was good at her subject, but as it was the last time they had to take it, they just wanted to sleep through it. John decided he might as well put some effort into it so that his school transcript would look good and maybe he'd get a scholarship to the university of his choice.

John took advantage of their schedules to keep a weather eye on the strange boy. He also made sure that Sherlock pointed out all the bullies, but especially the ones that had hurt the dark-haired boy. Edward and his crew, John memorized so that when he was off probation, he could give them a taste of their medicine. But there were others.

Phillip Anderson and his steady girlfriend Sally Donovan liked to yell 'freak' whenever Sherlock would pass them in the hall. They weren't the only ones, of course. They were just the most vocal.

And then there was Jim Moriarty. Sherlock couldn't prove it, but he was sure that it was Jim who was putting the horrible notes in Sherlock's locker. They would say things like "Fag" and "Such a pretty mouth, I would hate for something to happen to it", just creepy stuff like that. Arseholes. John was loyal to a fault and no one picked on his friends. Not without consequences.

Their literature class was interesting. It was so completely unlike any of their other classes. The teachers who didn't wear the black robes (with the stole and bands or just the cords) wore business attire. Suits for the men, skirts and blouses for the women, but not this teacher. He wore designer jeans and trainers with a white button up and sports coat. His blue eyes danced mischievously behind oval spectacles, and his dark brown hair was long enough to be pulled back in a neat ponytail.

In bold letters behind his desk was a large banner that said, "IF YOU DIDN'T VOTE, YOU CAN'T BITCH!" The desks were rearranged so instead of a semi-circle in front of the podium they were set up in three rows on each side of the room facing each other, an aisle between them just big enough for the teacher to stroll up and down.

"Please look for your names, that will be your seat until Christmas," the unmistakeable American accent called to them as they filed into the classroom.

John thankfully was by Sherlock.

"Everyone seated? Fantastic. Now, please pull out the syllabus given to you in the packet they gave you for all your classes."

There was some ruffling as students dug into bags, satchels, and backpacks, as soon as the teacher saw that everyone had theirs out, he smiled. "Great. Now throw them in the air."

There was a distinct lack of movement from the class as they stared at him.

"Go ahead, you won't get into trouble and I'll clean it up myself," he smiled warmly.

One person started, and as soon as everyone had done it, the teacher clapped. "All right. I bet you're all wondering what that was about? Well, my predecessor's syllabus was shit and you won't be getting one from me at all. My name is Charles Joseph Jones. Call me, CJ, not Mr Jones. Mr Jones makes me feel old."

The class blinked at him. They were British. It just wasn't done.

"You'll get the hang of it, I'm sure. Since you are without a syllabus you are probably wondering what we are going to do this year. We will be reading four great English novels. _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen, _Great Expectations_ by Charles Dickens, _Murder on the Orient Express_ by Agatha Christie, and _Casino Royale_ by Ian Fleming. And we'll also read two of Shakespeare's plays. A comedy, _Much Ado About Nothing_ and a tragedy, _Othello._ You'll be graded on the assignments and group/buddy projects. And before you get any ideas, I will be choosing the partners and groups each time."

The class moaned. But someone from the back row raised his hand. CJ looked at the seating chart before pointing to the boy.

"Moriarty, is it? What's your question?"

"So, are the tests not part of the grade?" the boy drawled with a Irish lilt.

"No. There are no tests. Studies have proven that any idiot can take a test. It doesn't accurately prove you know the subject."

"Is this an American thing?" Moriarty asked.

"Oh, god no. They are the absolute worst when it comes to forcing kids to takes standardized tests. No, this is a 'me' thing."

The class became awash with murmurs.

"Right, just one more thing before we start the on the first book, _Great Expectations_. Sherlock Holmes." He consulted his seating chart again. "I've been told things about you. My only rule is this: if you think that I've got something wrong or that there is a point of contention, wait until after class and we'll discuss it. If you are right, I'll make sure to inform the entire class of your correction. Deal?" He stuck out his hand to the dark-haired youth. Sherlock looked at the hand and the up to the teacher. He nodded and took CJ's hand.

"Deal." They pumped once and then let go.

The rest of John's day went by in a blur. He liked his classes, biology was good, as was the practical lab for his biology and chemistry classes. But he loved his anatomy class. With his drawing class working on the human figure and taking this class as well, he knew his people-drawing skills were going to advance in leaps and bounds. And considering they were something of a sore spot with him, he was really excited.

* * *

It was a pleasant day in early October that changed everything. John had been walking from his anatomy class to the dorms when a voice came over the campus wide PA system.

"This is your Dean of Students, Mr Reed. Headmaster Richards has asked me to direct all students to the auditorium. Please, all students come to the auditorium for an emergency assembly. Dorm Heads, please check all the rooms in your Houses to ensure that no one is caught ditching this important assembly. And if our teaching staff would check their classes and offices for stragglers, it would be appreciated. Again, all students report to the auditorium for an emergency assembly."

John was half way between the main building and his dorm when the announcement came through. He cursed silently and turned around to head back into the main building.

Just outside the center doors to the auditorium, Sherlock was waiting for his friend. John rushed up to him.

"Any idea what's going on?" he asked, but Sherlock just shook his head.

"No clue. Let's hurry in there, Dale and Victor are saving us a seat," the other boy told John.

"More than one I hope, otherwise I'd be sitting on your lap," John said with a wink and Sherlock blushed.

They moved quickly to their seats and sat down. "Where's Greg?" John asked Dale and Victor, leaning over Sherlock to whisper.

All three of his friends pointed to the stage. There in the aisle between the front row and the stage was Greg. He was fielding questions of the students that came to him for answers with a girl and another boy.

"Who are they then?" John asked, pointing the dark-haired girl with the long and narrow face and the boy with curly, ginger hair that was slicked back and a sneer that turned the room just a few degrees cooler.

"The other Dorm Heads," Victor explained. "The girl is Amelia Anderson and the ginger is Cary Firth."

"So the requirement for dorm head in Victoria is 'bitter man-hater' and for Paddington it's 'creepy as fuck'?" John asked with a snicker.

His friends laughed.

"It would seem so," Sherlock said.

Up on the stage, behind the podium were the Headmaster, the Dean of Students, and a man who took the stereotype 'grizzled cop' to whole new levels. He was broad-shouldered with a narrow face and greying blond hair. His badge was prominently displayed on the lapel of his dingy, tan trench coat and he worried his black fedora in his hands as he waited for everyone to file in.

Mr Reed stood up and shuffled over to the podium. He raised his hands to quiet the audience.

"Hello, students and faculty. Thank you for coming so promptly," he began.

"Like we had a choice," Sherlock murmured. John elbowed him in the ribs.

"I would also like to thank Detective Inspector Gregson for taking time to explain the situation to you all. DI Gregson," Mr Reed said and then sat down. The grizzled man put his hat on his chair and stood up, revealing him to be a tall man, taller than Mr Reed. He lifted the microphone and it squeaked horribly. He fiddled with it until the noise stopped.

DI Gregson cleared his throat. "Right. Thank you for that introduction, Mr Reed. Last night around half two in the morning, Master Jenkins, the riding instructor, was brutally murdered by someone bashing his skull in."

Their was a roar of disbelief from the crowd, but over the din, John heard the Headmaster hiss, "DI Gregson, please!"

Once the roar dulled, the Detective Inspector continued. "We will be interviewing each student and trust that they will be truthful. Lying, no matter the reason, only wastes our time; time giving the murderer a chance to escape."

There was a small murmuring to that proclamation. Again, the policeman waited them out.

"There is another matter, one that we believe to be connected to the murder. One of the school's horses has gone missing." He pulled his black leather notebook out of his suit breast pocket and began rifling through it. "A 'Silver Blaze'. Any information regarding this animal will be treated as priority."

Sherlock scrambled to stand up. He was breathing heavily and began to emit a low whine. John gently touched his arm, but it only set him off.

He screamed, "No!" and dashed for the doors. John looked at Victor and then ran after his friend.

Victor moved to follow them, but Dale held him down and shook his head.

"Let John take care of it," the light-haired boy told his friend.

"But-" Victor protested.

"I know, but would you be rushing out that door if John hadn't come along?" Dale asked. When his friend didn't answer, he smiled, "I thought not."

Sherlock had almost made it to the side doors when John caught up, but instead of tackling his friend, he followed him. And as John expected, Sherlock made a beeline for the paddock. John was a bit a winded by the time they got there, he paused for breath, hands on his knees. He looked up to see Sherlock thwarted in going over the fence by a constable.

"Oi! Get down, now!" he called. Sherlock eyed the man's nightstick warily and then did as he was told.

John rushed up to them.

"Hey! This is the owner of the horse that was stolen," he said imperiously.

"So? This is crime scene. No one is allowed back here until the boss says so. And seeing as he is up at the posh building just there, I'm betting he hasn't said so."

Another officer came up to them and she looked back and forth between her constable and the two boys.

"What's going on here?" she asked.

"These boys were trying to sneak into the crime scene," the officer huffed.

"No, we weren't!" John growled. "Sherlock has every right to be here."

"Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes? The owner of the missing horse?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

"We'll want to speak to you, but you should be back in that assembly."

"Oh who cares about that? I want to know what is being done to find my horse." He folded his arms over chest and glared at the two officers.

"There's a little matter about the murder of your teacher. I think that trumps your horse," the constable huffed.

"The life of one man does not trump the life of an animal worth £300,000-400,000," Sherlock snarled.

The silence was palpable.

He turned to John and whispered, "Not good?"

John looked around them and then back at his friend, "A bit not good, yeah."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again. CJ is based on a real person. My sociology teacher in high school. Everything from the banner, the way he dressed, the calling him by his first and middle initial, and not having tests is based on this one person. One of my favorite teachers of all time. He sadly retired the year after I graduated.

**Author's Note:**

> And here is a link to what the school grounds look like:
> 
>  
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/88803735@N08/15250874472)  
> 
> 
> It's not to scale or anything, but it should give you a general idea of where things are. Would anyone be interested in me doing a mockup of the dorms? Like what's on the ground floor and what the rooms look like?


End file.
